Hear Your Sincerity
by Derron Comes Ripping
Summary: Johnny meets someone almost as crazy as he is, tries to turn his life around...and someone very special winds up dead. "R" for sexual situations, drug use, language, and violence/gore.
1. Prologue

Hear Your Sincerity  
  
Prologue  
  
She knew it was a dream. The tastes and senses induced were only figments of her imagination, but it all seemed so real. The images were clear cut, not blurry as in so many of her hallucinations. Everything was true to life except this time around she died. She knew it because of the feeling of total detachment, and she could see her spirit rising out of her body and into the midnight sky. The stars were bright out, but something troubled her. Demon-like apparitions surrounded her soul hissing contrition into her ethereal ears, and her nostrils were assaulted with the pervading scent of sulfur. Was this Hell? There was no fire, no brimstone, only these transparent demons and the ever-present stench of rotten eggs. Yes, this was Hell, and she was condemned to it forever.  
  
She awoke with a start and checked her wrists. No cuts, no blood, only the two pale scars that were always there. Taking a deep breath she glanced at the digital clock sitting across the room from her. 1:57 a.m. Too early to be conscious, let alone thinking about her daily agony. She slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen, opening a cabinet. Row after row of pill bottles greeted her eager eyes. She selected carefully. Twelve hundred milligrams of melatonin should do her in for one night. She popped four pills, chased them down with a glass of water, and made her way back to her bed. As she lay down she reflected on the past month. She didn't care what the sedatives would do to her body. She just wanted a dreamless sleep, and hopefully the drugs could aid that wish. It didn't work.  
  
* Across town, another character was wide awake. He had already slept his three hours, anything more would result in restless half-wakefulness. It was two in the morning, and the night sky was beyond description. The clouds had finally cleared, and the moonless sky twinkled with the light of the stars that shone in it. Just like my life. Black, no recollection, with only tiny pinpricks of light piercing the dark. He sighed. He recognized some vague emotion clawing at the back of his mind. Was it sadness? Never mind, it was gone now.  
  
He descended the stairs into the depths of the house. The screaming had finally stopped, the whimpers had ceased, and now a ubiquitous calm descended over the residence. The crickets weren't even singing. Every now and then a sigh would escape from a dark corner, or a sob would pierce the air, constant reminders of the mass of humanity around him. He sat on the ground, hugging his legs with his arms. Pitiful waste of time. Lonely silence. It was nights like this that made him wish there was someone to call, someone to relay his problems too. He carried around quite a heavy load. A piercing torment always managed to manifest itself, and was only further compounded by the stupidity of people around him. God, when will life begin to get interesting? He thought as he gazed up at the stars, bright, and full of malice. 


	2. Dickie

1  
  
The sun rose early the next day, shining through the undressed windows of apartment #157. She was currently somewhere between consciousness and sleep, floating in a half recognized world of shapes and colors. There was a sound in the background, a very faint ringing, as though a phone was sounding. A phone...  
  
  
  
She jumped up quickly, smacking her toe on the footboard. She stumbled her way to the telephone, cursing her sore extremity and hoping that it wasn't her boss. "What?"  
  
  
  
"Hey, Dickie?" Thank God. It was the voice of a friend. "You sound pretty pissed off, what's up?"  
  
  
  
"Aw, nothing Kat. It's that goddamn dream again. I was just hoping you weren't my boss. I skipped work last Saturday because of a migraine, and he hasn't called yet." She sighed.  
  
  
  
"Jeez, Dick, you've been there for two years. I doubt he'd fire you for just skipping once." There was a pause. "But if he does, there's always that other job you keep talking about. The one at that night club."  
  
  
  
Dickie sighed. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, but it's just the fact that at this moment in time, I have a stable income and a guaranteed paycheck, and I'd like to keep it that way. Now, Kat, it's nine in the morning. Why did you call?"  
  
  
  
Kat began to speak, her voice becoming more and more animated. "You know that guy at the record shop? Well, he finally asked me out for Friday. The only problem is that he has a friend that is coming."  
  
"So you want to know if I'll come on a double date with you and Mr. Record shop."  
  
"Yes! You can read my mind!"  
  
"Um, Kat? Guys like to pull this shit all the time," Dickie said, her voice cynical.  
  
"Oh." Another pause. "But will you come? Please?"  
  
Dickie adjusted the phone so she was holding it between her shoulder and her cheek. "Kat, you know how much I hate men, relationships, and dates in general."  
  
"Aw, Dickie, please? I told him you would. And if he's an ass, you can still get dinner and a movie out of it," Kat wheedled.  
  
"Okay, fine," Dickie agreed as she examined her nails.  
  
"Yeah, Dickie!" Kat was squealing like a cheerleader at a pep rally. "I knew you'd say yes!"  
  
"What are friends for," Dickie said, deadpan. "I'm calling my boss. Talk to you later, bye." She hung up the phone and plunked herself down on a barstool. Dammit dammit dammit. Why did she always allow her friends to talk her into dates with dumb jocks who just wanted a quick lay rather than to get to know her as a person? She kept thinking things would be different, but she always found nothing had changed. Sometimes she would get into a nice relationship with a seemingly caring person, but after a few months of bliss she would discover "Mr. Right" was just yet another figment of Mr. Wrong.  
  
Oh well, it's over, I agreed to it, she thought as she picked up the telephone again. This time, she dialed her boss and waited for him to pick up.  
  
"Hello, you've reached Jeff Daniel's. I'm not able to come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and number, and if you're lucky then I'll call you back." The machine beeped and Dickie began to talk.  
  
"Hey, Jeff, it's Dickie. I'm just calling to give you a pitiful excuse why I wasn't at work on Saturday, so either call me back, or don't, your choice." She hung up the phone, and set it down on the cabinet. The good thing about Jeff was his leniency. He treated his employees as though they were equal, not underlings. He allowed them to call him Jeff, and as long as you didn't miss too many days he let you take sick leaves when everyone knew you weren't really ill. He was like a big brother to some of the younger workers and helped them get through finals in history or government. He should have been a teacher, Dickie thought. Not working at a coffee shop.  
  
And where should she be? The answer came to her quickly: dead. She had tried at least four times, deliberately putting herself into the way of destruction, but somehow she always managed to survive. Whether it was through sheer will or a supernatural protector, she didn't know. Horrible things had happened to her; terrible dealings had taken place but she always managed to persevere. Was it human strength? Or something else?  
  
Dickie stood up off her perch and walked around the bar. It was early, and she was hungry. Although there was little to eat in her pantry, she managed to find an oatmeal packet hiding in the back behind the pasta. I really need to go shopping. Dickie heated the water and poured it over her breakfast, stirring mechanically. The wave of tiredness hit her immediately. The long nights of not sleeping were finally getting to her. As she sank to the ground she began to cry. Why did life have to be so cruel? What was haunting her to the extent she couldn't sleep? And above all, why was she feeling remorse now for her past sins, three years after the act happened? She wasn't crazy!  
  
Her inner tirade was interrupted by the sound of the phone. Dickie scrambled up from the ground and hurried to answer it before it hit the fourth ring. It was a little game she played with herself, trying to see if she could get the phone before the answering machine picked up. "Hello?"  
  
It was her boss. "Hello, Dickie. This is Jeff. I'm ready for your pitiful excuse."  
  
"I had a migraine. I would have loved to come in, but you know how sometimes when you stand up too fast your head hurts and you want to vomit?" Jeff made a little noise of recognition. "Well, I was feeling that for seven hours."  
  
Dickie heard some rustling of papers as Jeff began. "I'll give you that. This is the first time you've skipped work without a notice in two years, so I think I can cut you some slack. I've scheduled you today at four- thirty until closing at midnight, so you can make up your hours. Does that float your boat?"  
  
"Yeah, that works. Hey Jeff, do I have anything scheduled for Friday night?" Dickie asked.  
  
"No, I don't have anything," answered Jeff. "Why?"  
  
"Well, Kat asked me out on a double date with some guy friends. I don't really know, she likes to pull shit like that."  
  
Jeff let out a hearty laugh. "Tell her as long as she keeps buying our lattes, she can do whatever the hell she wants."  
  
Dickie smiled. "I'll make sure to tell her that. Bye Jeff, and thanks." She hung up the phone with a flourish and checked the clock on the microwave. It read 9:16 A.M. If she could, she would have tried to sleep, but since that was impossible, she decided to continue on with her breakfast. She carried her oatmeal to the bar and sat down on a stool. She took the TV remote from its designated place next to the phone and clicked on her television. Just in time for the morning news. For some odd reason, she enjoyed hearing the sordid details of the night's happenings and of overseas crisis.' Maybe I am crazy, Dickie thought as she shoveled oatmeal into her mouth.  
  
"...Another man was murdered last night, his disemboweled body found behind the 24-7 store near Pine. This is the seventh murder this month, all using similar techniques. The killer or killers are skilled, as they have never left behind any evidence and no credible witnesses have come forward. If you have any information as to the murder of this man, please contact the police or call our news station at (713) 253-7962. All tips will be investigated."  
  
The drone of the news seemed to blend into the background as Dickie contemplated the latest murder. She didn't think that it was all the same person, after all, the murders happened in such swift succession. Any murderer, not even the most deranged serial killer would risk killing seven people in three months. It also seemed the police investigating the case were inept. No evidence? That hardly seemed possible. All killers, no matter how skilled, always left some trace of fibers, or semen, or something. It wasn't as if they were killed by ghosts. She had heard several conjectures: that it was a serial killer, that it could be a gang of murderers all working together, or that it was one person and the police were just dumb. Dickie favored the second speculation. It seemed much more, well, plausible than anything else, even though guess number three could work too. A serial killer seemed to fall a bit off the mark, but in this day and age, anything was possible.  
  
She had long finished her breakfast, and now placed the bowl in the sink. She'd do the dishes later. At this moment in time, she wanted nothing more than to restock her supplies and buy a book she had been reading at the bookstore for quite some time now. Dickie stalked into her room and grabbed some clothes out of an open drawer. Blue shirt she found at a Salvation Army, cutoff jeans, and her trusty black Converse would satisfy her for a quick drive. She tossed on her clothes and pulled her hair back rather haphazardly. I need to re-dye it. The color is coming out. She enjoyed her current color, a combination of her natural brown and a purplish dye. In the right light her head seemed to radiate violet, causing second looks in her direction. She had also had more than a few snide comments on it. She brushed her teeth quickly, popped in a piece of cherry bubblegum, grabbed her car keys and headed out the door. The corridor leading to her apartment smelled musty, like it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Judging by the upkeep of the building as a whole, it didn't have a chance of being cleaned in the next ten years. She kept her own apartment in pretty good shape, scrubbing it spotless one day a month with minor touchups here and there. The only messy part of the apartment was the tiny area of space she has sanctioned off in the bedroom. That was her "office," the place where she wrote her poetry, played her guitar, and occasionally painted. That area of the house was where her muse ran free, and she made sure the inspiration wouldn't leave by keeping all sorts of cluttered figurines and icons in the corner. She had about five Buddhas, one Shiva, two Virgin Marys, Jesus Christ on the cross, a star of David, a copy of the Qur'an, and various antique sculptures from art dealers around the city. Even though she didn't smoke out of it, she had a five foot tall bong in one corner, just for show. I mean, who else has a five foot bong? she thought.  
  
She twirled her car keys around her finger as she stepped outside. The first thing to hit her was the sunlight. She growled a little and sprinted to her car. The heat didn't bother her as much as the sun. The heat wasn't the problem; she lived in San Francisco for God's sake. The wind kept her cool, but today it was one of the rare days when the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. She hated the sun, as anyone could tell from her pale, sickly skin. Ever since she had been small her body had an extreme aversion to light. She could never go to the beach, in fact, if she was in direct sunlight for more than three hours, large blisters would appear on her skin, with or without the use of sunscreen. She lived with the windows shut and the lights turned off, retreating every day into her world of dark seclusion. If she had to go out in the sun, she either brought a long sleeved shirt or heavy duty sunscreen. She needed to find a parasol, but never had the time. There was no time for anything anymore. Attempt to sleep, work, eat, and repeat the same thing over again.  
  
She had reached her car, and put the key into the lock. I need a new car, she thought with a sigh. The current model was a 1988 gray Camry stained with various liquids on the seats and the ever present smell of coffee and old cigarettes. Thank God it wasn't stale fast food! As she climbed into the car she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a battered pack of Marlboro Reds. She lit one, started the car, and rolled down the window in what seemed to be one movement. She had done it a million times, considering she had been smoking since the tender age of fourteen, and driving since fifteen. A hardship license had seen to that. She pulled out of the parking lot and onto a busy road. She hit the gas, coasting up to 45 miles per hour easily. Even though the car was fourteen years old, it still ran perfectly. She was waiting to completely wear it out before buying a new one. She didn't like expenditures, it was more cash for other habits down the drain. To put it simply, almost all her money went to her drug purchases of cocaine and marijuana. It had merely begun as self medication for mild depression, but scaled into a full time habit. She knew it was criminal, and also dumb, but there were times that she felt if she didn't have it, she would go insane. But wasn't that what she was?  
  
She pushed a tape into the tape player, and the sound of music began to blare out the speakers. Today's selection had been FEAR, although she would have gone for something with more of a rhythm. She had always enjoyed coordinating her music with her moods as to further buoy her up. It was almost a ritual to flip through CDs or tapes to find the music of the day. Dickie turned on her signal, turning off the main road onto a narrow side street. The supermarket was close now. In fact, it loomed in the distance like a shrine to food, a twenty four hour smorgasbord of gluttony. She hit the gas again, shooting up to 55, and braking suddenly as a minivan in front of her slowed down. Damn soccer moms. If there was one thing she hated more than high school, it was soccer moms. They don't own the fucking road. Dickie continued muttering to herself and turned into the parking lot of Foodville. It was crowded today, and it took her a good fifteen minutes just to find a parking spot. It was fairly close, thank God, so the sun wouldn't affect her walk to the store. She got out, locked her door, and grabbed a shopping cart from a nearby holding rack. She knew what she desired, there was no need for a list. A blast of cold air hit her in the face as the automatic doors slid back to reveal a shining array of foodstuffs. Dickie wrinkled her nose; the smell of cleaner was harsh to her.  
  
She began in the cereal aisle, taking two boxes of Raisin Bran and three cans of Quaker Instant Oatmeal off the shelf. She also purchased milk, apple juice, a few bags of Reeses, a twelve-pack of Cherry Fiz-Whiz, two pounds of avocados, and a fresh baguette. Much to her growing dismay, she found her affinity for French food was crippling her pocketbook. At the cashier line, she bought a Grape Brainfreezy on an impulse, paid the total with a debit card and pushed back the urge to quit the state. As she fought the soccer moms clogging the road she sighed. Can I ever find something new? *  
  
The bookstore was less crowded. It seemed like very few people of her age group read anymore; that rare pleasure seemed to be confined to the older generation and small children. She was the only person she knew who relished reading. Even though Kat read from time to time, it just wasn't the same. A book was Dickie's sublime companion, and without it she felt lost. She began to comb the poetry section, scanning the G's for Allen Ginsberg, her favorite beat poet. He reeked of urban sophistication; something rarely found anymore. Just her luck. The booksellers were out.  
  
She continued to scan the poetry, but moved on when nothing struck her fancy. Dickie meandered her way into histories, and then biographies. After about fifteen minutes of deliberation and flipping pages back and forth, she selected Marilyn Monroe over Dee Dee Ramone and turned to go to the counter.  
  
Something stopped her in her tracks. There, right before her, was one of the most gorgeous people she had ever seen in her life. He was contemplating Voltaire's Candide, across the rows, rubbing his chin with an unaffected air. He seemed to have no idea she was watching him, until he flicked his eyes upwards and caught her stare. He seemed immediately offended. "What?" he muttered to her.  
  
Dickie was startled. "Umm...nothing."  
  
"Do you think it's all right to stare at strangers? Or are you just stupid like the rest of them?"  
  
"Hey, Mister," Dickie began. "Maybe some people stare because they're interested. Not all people stare because you look funny. If you haven't noticed, I get a lot of stares too." She stood akimbo, waiting for the next salvo of words.  
  
All he said was, "Oh." The he was silent.  
  
Dickie decided it was probably time to move on. She was strangely entranced by this territorial hermit, but after that ordeal, she concluded her welcome was worn out. She managed a brief "It was nice talking to you," and then scurried up the counter with her purchase. She made sure to put her order in for Ginsburg's Howl.  
  
As she climbed into her car with the book, she couldn't help thinking about that young man's eyes. They were a piercing color, a light green if you may, and it seemed almost as if he was trying to peer into her mind's workings. Creepy. She smiled, crossed her fingers, and hoped she would run into him again. 


	3. Johnny

2 She had a beautiful face. It wasn't often he had an interest in people, but he knew aesthetic features when he saw them. If only he hadn't caught her staring. He hated people who stared as if he were some kind of strange sideshow object. He was a person, for God's sake. He was just like everyone else: two hands, two feet, two eyes, one nose, a head, a torso. Why was it so hard for others to grasp that he didn't want to look like the collective majority? Well, judging by her appearance she didn't want to look like that either. Her hair color was fading, it had originally been a red, now it was disappearing fast into the original brown. Her face wasn't accentuated with the makeup most women can't be seen without, and her clothes; just something thrown on. And yet she was beautiful.  
  
He hadn't been there to look at books. He was there to watch another woman from afar, one he had met and trailed for a long time, one he knew only as Devi. He had made an attempt on her life, tried to apologize, and merely succeeded in widening the gap between them. So he watched, waiting to make his move, to sweep her off her feet with some yet-unknown scheme. The last three times he had been to the bookstore she wasn't there. Something deep down inside told him that she had left to find another place of employment, but whether it was a will not believe or sheer habit, he kept returning. He felt lost without her near. He had trailed her often, to work, to lunch, and then back home, each time marking the faces she noticed, the people she spoke to, where she stopped. Maybe it would lead to a finite conclusion in the grip of the miasma.  
  
It was time he gave up. More and more people were flooding in through the doors, and he was beginning to feel stifled. She obviously wasn't there. He stalked towards the exit, drifting out of people's way as if he were a shadow. Don't touch me, don't touch me, he thought with repugnance, but managed to successfully make it to the hallowed portal without the chance of contact. He wanted to go home, but what was there to go home to? He had no friends, no family he was aware of, only himself and the inner torment his body yielded to him. That was the only emotion his person held. There was nothing else, no sadness, no physical longing, no happiness, content, or giddiness. Just torment.  
  
He shooed away a fly that buzzed around his face, attracted to the smell of old sweat and the scent of travel that so often caused a commotion among the scent glands of the insect world. This city seemed unfamiliar now. He had lived here for all of his high school years and until three months ago, when he left town for days. Weeks had passed; he had lost all sense of time. All he knew was day and night, and even then the rising of the moon had about as much effect on him as the dawning of the sun: none. Everything was the same to him now. The only thing that had remained constant throughout the stormy period of his life was his name: John. His daily routine had been stormy, filled with confrontation and loathing, until he came upon an idea to end it all. He would purge all emotion from his body, a systematic eradication of feeling and human instinct. He returned to San Francisco when he felt his quest was complete. Every now and then, there would be a twinge of something familiar in the back of this head, but for the most part, he was an unfeeling machine. Certain things caused an odd calm in him: beautiful faces, animals, intelligent children. But, beyond those few objects, everything else was a void, things he abhorred and held no desire to get close to. He lived as a hermit beyond society, uncaring, wishing only for an absolution to ease his troubled mind. He seemed always on the verge of a total mental collapse. He heard voices in his head, but was still unsure whether it was a schizophrenic tendency, or something beyond his comprehension leading him, maybe, towards a greater good.  
  
He glanced down the rows of cars parked before him, silently trying to remember which one he parked on. The chrome glittered in the morning sun. Johnny shielded his eyes from the glare as he recollected where is vehicle was. He stepped off the curb, still holding his hand in front of his eyes, and reeled quickly as a car honked its horn right in his face. He hadn't seen it stop because of the glare, and he hadn't realized he was right in its path. Well shit. He ran across the road, down aisle B, and to his car. It was gray, a compact old Civic with a Jack ball on his radio antenna, dirty, battered, thousands of miles ran underneath the wheels, disappearing into oblivion in the rearview mirror. Now, he saw concrete, skyscrapers, the teeming mass of humanity pulsing out of every building on either side of the road. Johnny cringed.  
  
Inside the car he felt safe. He loved driving, especially out in the country near Napa Valley. Nature was beautiful, just nature, where he could surround himself with the pleasures of the wild. It left him refreshed, ready to face another day of finding himself. Sometimes it was hard, knowing he was one of the few people actually awake to the sense of the degeneration around him. Society was crumbling slowly down among the heads of those who tried to build it up. Johnny sighed, his breath mingling with the air conditioner. It was slowly nearing ten o'clock, the digital on his dashboard seemed frozen at 9:59. A minute and another mile rolled by. Outside his window, Johnny could see people beginning their day, bulging from apartment buildings into the street, unlocking car doors, chatting with neighbors. A young mother toting her baby down to a corner store. Teenagers skipping school, cigarettes between their teeth. An old man limping down the sidewalk. The faces passed his indifferent eyes, yet he felt struck. It was still her face. There had been something familiar in her eyes, something kind of like the crazed look that emanated from his own. An odd look of both fear and loathing; an emotion no one could put a finger on. You had to feel it to understand it.  
  
He veered from his present course, turning onto a less traveled street that led to a residential district. He was finally heading home. He didn't know what to feel, either revulsion at being back, or relief and hope for something more stable. Without emotion maybe he could live some semblance of a normal life: wife, kids, a job... He banished that thought from his mind. No. Never. He was damned to a life of seclusion and angst.  
  
Cars stretched on before him as everyone fought to get into the city at the same time. He passed line after line of stalled vehicles heading toward downtown. His car was one of the few going towards the housing district. During the stupor of driving these past months, he had half remembered an teenage dream he once had to quit living with his parents and move into a downtown loft. He had always loved the feel of those things, the convenient location, the potential. Then his mother's words came back to him, "Always a dreamer Johnny. Always a dreamer."  
  
"Well that's fucking true," he said out loud as he pushed the speed up to 45. The city had thinned into houses, mothers went back and forth with packages and bags from early morning shopping; small children played in their front yards. Turning left at a stop sign, he took in the familiar surroundings. Nothing had changed. This area of the city never changed.  
  
After a few more turns, he arrived at his current residence. One of the 7 plates was lopsided, more weeds poked through the sidewalk, another window was broken. But other than that, the pitiful hovel had still retained everything that used to be so dear to him. He chanced a quick glance next door. Only one car was in the driveway. Johnny sighed and loped his way up the sidewalk. The door swung open easily, revealing the backpack he had left there last night. The dust stirred up as he walked across the floorboards, retracing his pacing from the previous night. He glanced up at the walls; the plaster was cracking, the blood flaked from the walls, aged, dirty. It was sad really, that he managed to exist in such an inhospitable place. It was beyond sad, it was pitiful.  
  
Johnny finally quit his pacing and sat down. He could still hear the minute sighs coming up from below, the ghosts of everyone he had killed. It was almost as if there were still people in the residence, although he knew for a fact no one was. He had searched every corner of the house upon return, and although he found some decayed corpses, not a single living thing was among the remains. He dumped the bodies in a ditch, not caring who saw, knowing he'd never be caught, and then come back to his house to wait out the night. It was then he discovered the moans.  
  
Around midnight, he began to hear noises, as if there were still victims of his in the house. Johnny shrugged, thinking it was just the wind, and proceeded to ignore the cries of agony. However, around one- thirty, a small, gauzy figure appeared in a corner. Johnny was startled, crying out, but soon the figure disappeared and Johnny realized the truth: his house was haunted. Fortunately, he didn't mind ghosts. They weren't real people, so therefore could not harm him in any other way, other than scaring him out of his wits from time to time. That he could take.  
  
Soon, noises from the street brought Johnny out of his reverie. He went to a window, looking for the cause of the commotion. It was next door. A white van had pulled up in front of the neighbor's house, and was depositing what appeared to be a small person on the doorstep. A man rang the doorbell, waiting for an answer. There wasn't one, so the man in white began to approach Johnny's door. Oh no you don't! Johnny thought with malice. Go away, white man. The man kept coming despite Johnny's mental projections of distaste. Soon, the doorbell rang, and Johnny sighed, departed from the window, and opened the door. "What?" he snapped.  
  
The man in white seemed rather taken aback. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but I'm from Oakland Hospital..."  
  
Johnny sneered. "Already been there."  
  
The man chuckled and replied, "Sorry, sir, but this isn't for you. Do you happen to know if anyone his home next door? We have a, well, a delivery of sorts to make."  
  
Johnny rubbed his chin. "Well, there's a car in the driveway, so I guess someone would be home. Probably the lady of the house." Johnny paused. "Why?"  
  
"Well, after doing several mental evaluations on their son, a Todd Casil, we were unable to find anything wrong with him. We've brought him home, and it seems no one is answering. Do you think, sir, that you could watch Todd until his father gets home?" The man looked imploringly at Johnny, almost begging him to get the kid off his hands.  
  
Johnny laughed. "Sure! Sque-I mean, Todd and I are good buddies. Send him over here and I'll keep him occupied." The man beckoned to the little boy, who seemed hesitant.  
  
"Sorry. After all he's been through he's probably pretty leery of people."  
  
"No need to apologize. Just get the kid." Johnny grinned as the man began to make his way back to Todd. So that is what this visit was all about! Johnny could have danced, but he kept his feet on the ground as the ward ushered Todd inside.  
  
"Here you go, kid. I'm leaving you here until your dad gets home." The man pulled out a clipboard from a bag he carried and said, "Now, since you received Todd Casil could you please sign here on this line saying that you're taking care of him for the time being?"  
  
"Sure." Johnny signed the paper with a flourish, and saw the man out. Then, he turned to Todd, who was cowering in a corner. "What's the matter, Squee? Scared?"  
  
Todd quivered. "Please, don't put me in a trashcan! I don't wanna die!"  
  
Johnny almost burst out laughing. "Me? Kill you? Why would I do something like that! I thought we were friends, Squee! I'm just taking care of you until your dad gets home 'cause you're not crazy."  
  
Todd began to look around at his surroundings, noting the bloodstained walls and dusty floors. "Where are all the people?"  
  
Johnny rubbed Todd's hair and grinned. "All the people aren't here anymore. There's no one in this house besides you and me, kid."  
  
"You mean you don't kill people anymore?"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't say that, but I haven't for about three months. I just got into town yesterday, so I really haven't had much time." Johnny smiled down at his young guest, who gazed up at him in both fear and awe. "You hungry?"  
  
Todd nodded. "I don't have to eat people, do I?"  
  
This time Johnny couldn't hold back his chuckles. "No, no, Squee. I was thinking sandwiches or Spaghettios. Or do you want anything special?"  
  
Todd thought for a moment, scratching his head. "Umm...do you have tomato soup?" he asked shyly.  
  
"Naw," Johnny answered. "We can go get some if you want." He watched Todd shake his head yes, and Johnny grabbed his keys. "How about we go out instead to celebrate your homecoming?"  
  
"Yeah!" Todd shouted in excitement. "Can we go to Taco Smell?"  
  
"Taco Smell sounds great." * Taco Smell was crowded even though it was only eleven in the morning. Standing in line, Johnny felt a growing agitation at the people around him, but fought back his urge to kill for the sake of the kid at his side. He had never seen Squee so happy. He was smiling and dancing about like any ten year old should do. He seemed a far cry from the frightened, timid boy he had last seen. Johnny thought back on the last night he had visited the young neighbor boy. "Hey, Squee?" asked Johnny.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Johnny shuffled a little. "How's your dad? I mean, I didn't permanently damage him or anything when I smacked him, did I?"  
  
Todd seemed thoughtful. "No. He had a bad headache but you didn't hurt him too bad. He got abducted by aliens a few days later though. Then he got mad and sent me to the hospital. I was there for a few weeks. It wasn't fun. They asked me all sorts of questions and took my blood and asked me about what happened in my life. I told them about you. They looked at me like I was crazy."  
  
Johnny laughed. "You? Crazy? But I saw you there, remember? I told you to try the stew. I doubt you remember, you seemed kind of doped- up at the time."  
  
"I think I do remember you. What were you doing at the hospital?" Todd asked.  
  
"I was doing a sleep survey; something on dreams. Eventually I got sick of it and left. Can you blame me?" Johnny grinned.  
  
Squee smiled, and laughed. "No. But you're doing okay though, aren't you, Nny?"  
  
"Yeah, I..." Johnny suddenly stopped. "You just called me Nny!" He was shocked.  
  
"Yes...why?"  
  
"That's the first time you've ever called me something besides 'Scary Neighbor Man.' I'm flattered...Really I am!" Johnny smiled, feeling happy. Now this was one emotion he liked! He knew it wouldn't stay, but he decided to enjoy while he could. This day was going all right. First, he had seen that beautiful creature in the bookstore, now his young charge had actually called him by his familiar nickname.  
  
Lunch tasted very good that day. 


End file.
